


carving, sketching

by kalirya178



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, Lee Minho | Lee Know-centric, Minor Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know, Not Beta Read, Self-Harm, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, jisung isn’t mentioned by name but just know that’s who i’m referring to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:09:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24135628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalirya178/pseuds/kalirya178
Summary: lee minho likes to draw.his body is his canvas, glass is his paintbrush of choice.he’ll free himself, and it’ll be the last thing he’ll ever do.——————-!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!❗️❗️❗️❗️❗️READ THE TAGS.HEED THE WARNINGS.This fic contains content that may be severely triggering.
Kudos: 23





	carving, sketching

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING  
> ❗️❗️❗️❗️  
> GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF SELF-HARM  
> GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF SUICIDE
> 
> Heed the tags.
> 
> Do NOT read this if you’re easily triggered by: 
> 
> \- blood ❗️  
> \- death ❗️  
> \- self-harm ❗️  
> \- suicide ❗️  
> \- anything related to these concepts, just to be safe.❗️❗️
> 
> I won’t say happy reading, because this isn’t a happy read.

he sits, with his glass shard. couldn’t use a knife, that would show up on camera, and scratches were temporary. someone would notice. it would affect his dancing, his performance. he couldn’t let that happen.

so he sits, holding his shard of glass, carving pictures on his skin, making sure to inflict enough pain without breaking through the precious barrier. he draws beautiful things, names (like his members, especially the one he holds dearest to his heart, in a different way), flowers (he loves drawing roses because if he squints at the scratches, he can imagine the lines filling with blood. he imagines the red, red roses digging into the skin of his arm with their sharp thorns), symbols (his favorite so far is the three round triangles, interconnected and intertwined like his cats always are, and like his soul is intertwined with them), cracks (for when he pretends his skin is stone, and wants to break it apart), blood. he mostly draws blood, without ever drawing blood. 

still, he sits, switching the glass between hands to sketch the outline of a hydrangea on his right arm. he likes hydrangeas nearly as much as roses. they hurt the most. he revels in the pain, he deserves it. pathetic. can’t even do basic tasks. doesn’t matter how well he can dance, because can he wash his face every day? clean his bunk sometimes? go to sleep when he can? help out around the dorm? the answers hurt, and he wishes they were different.

he sits, self-made barbs digging into his heart as the glass digs into his skin. stretching the border of unbearable. he loves it, because he’s getting what he deserves. he’s art, a twisted horror of whys and why nots. as long as he tells a story, he can be art. 

and so, he sits and draws, carving beautiful trauma into his soul and his skin, until the morning sun.

~~~~~

it’s been over a year since he first sat. he’s sat so many times since then, creating sketches of bloodless blood, flowers, tears, cracks, _names._ he’s pretty sure they’re called _paintings_ for a reason. still, this time is different. gone is the glass, he now grips a knife, calloused hand caressing the smooth surface. there’s never enough of it, really, he thinks, time’s a fiendish, slippery beast. and he’s finally run out. he presses the tip of the blade into his forearm, carving a name, no longer belonging to him, onto a body no longer his. 

  
  
~~~~~

his members find him, sprawled on the white sheets, blood surrounding him like a bed of red roses. he’s not smiling, but he’s not frowning either. eyes are shielded from the sight, not with hands, but with tears.

the words _이 민호_ stained on his still body like a bloody prophecy.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at a time where I was very depressed. 
> 
> This is a work of fiction and has no connection to any past, present, or future events in real life.


End file.
